What I feel when his teeth break the thin layer of skin on my neck and he begins to take blood from me is an odd sort of submerging feeling, like I've been thrown in the ocean with a weight strapped to my ankle.
As I go down, down, further into the sinking abyss that has to be an effect of the bite itself, or his saliva, I try to fight back, try to claw my way back to the surface, back to control over my own body.
Because, I realize, I can't move. My synapses fire, order my arms to push away, to slide out from his deathly embrace, but the electricity is stopped, overpowered by his will to feed.
Push harder, I tell myself, and strain against his control; I feel an odd, internal wrenching. The pleasurable, sleepy feeling is gone, and fire consumes me. My veins feel like they're turning themselves inside out, being shredded as the blood is pulled from my body.
I start to scream and the sounds are frightening to my own ears; gurgles and haggard shouts that could peel the paint from walls are expelled from my throat. Eric takes his teeth from my throat and throws me on the bed, where I can barely lift my head to see him wipe his mouth. His eyes are furious, and I expect the last thing he'll want is another drop of my blood, my essence, but he licks his fingers and mouth clean, then turns to me and leans in. His tongue, warmed by my own body, traces the skin where he bit me until he cleans the wound completely.
"Do you like this?" he asks, his voice carrying an undercurrent of fury.
"What?" I whisper back, my voice barely able to cross the distance from my mouth to his ear.
"This weakness. This is what death feels like. First you lose strength, then you feel yourself slowly slipping away. Do you want this?" He's looking in my eyes now, searching for something I don't have an answer to.
"But you didn't actually die," I say, forcing my voice to be stronger, though I feel the strain run through my entire body. "You slipped away, only to come back as something different. You cheated life itself, missed its greatest lesson."
"Do you want to learn it for me?" He asks, smiling to show off his teeth. They lengthen in front of my eyes; I think he expects me to gasp, to show fear, but I can't. I lift my fingers, though they're heavy as lead, up to his face. My hand reaches his cheek and it's smooth like marble, impervious. His jaw line is sharp, has a strength and masculinity to it that would be attractive had I not been his captive. There's light stubble on his chin, surrounding his mouth, accentuating a cupid's bow that's deep, like my own. His facial hair is blonde, his lashes too, and it softens that hunter's gaze. I close my own eyes for a moment, knowing the black of my own lashes hardens my features, makes them jump out in contrast. We couldn't be more dissimilar; though I am tall, Eric towers over me, even as I lay on the bed. Where I am dark, he is pale; I'm wild with rebellion while he gazes out through an icy exterior.
I continue to explore his face and reach that open mouth, the color a pale pink almost too delicate for a man, and then my clumsy fingers bump into the deadly teeth that fit so elegantly into his mouth. They're razor sharp and my finger slices easily. I feel the blood well up; his lips close over my digit and his eyes flutter shut. His hand takes mine, holds it at the wrist.
"You're just another predator," I say, and he opens his eyes. "I'm not afraid of you because you offer death or captivity. I know the options. And you say you won't hurt me, but since I'm lying here, barely able to move, I'd say you're also a liar."
His mouth releases my finger, damp with his saliva, and my arm drops to my side.
"It wouldn't have hurt if you hadn't fought me." His eyes flicker back to my finger.
"Don't you see?" I ask. "All I have is my will. You can't break me like a horse."
"You'll go insane, then. Just give in to me." There's no pleading in his voice, just fact; he thinks he should win, thinks my refusal is a fleeting mood.
"Why? Why should I get Stockholm Syndrome just because you feel bad about taking my life away?"
"I'm letting you live—" he begins, but I cut him off.
"In theory, yes. But now, I have no life. And nothing you do will change that." A cough catches in my throat and my chest rattles with the pressure.
"Why did you take me?" I stare at him, daring him to look away, to break contact.
"I told you—I couldn't have you telling people of vampires' existence. You jeopardize everything."
"Do you think I'm stupid?" He raised an eyebrow, but lets me continue.
"I went to Northwestern. I am a police officer. Even having seen what you are, I would have kept my mouth shut. I value my job, my life. By taking me, by letting me see what you are, by reminding me of it, by giving me your name and asking for mine, you took me. This isn't about trust, about your existence. This is because you're lonely, because you want someone to amuse you."
"Nice theory." Eric's voice is sarcastic, but low—dangerous, a warning. His hair, sort of long, almost shoulder length and a pale yellow, the sort you see more in children, falls out from behind his ear, landing on my cheek. It's soft; I expect him to move it, but he doesn't. It stays, like a miniature curtain, falling down far enough to overlap with my own dark hair. I collect my thoughts, though, try to concentrate on the small truths he'd shown me, and continue.
"That night that I saw you, saw you killing Gray, you said I was interesting. Why?"
"You're smart enough," Eric says, his eyes hard with a challenge. "Figure it out." He sits up, away from me. His teeth are still elongated, and I take it as a test—he's trying to see how long I'll stand up to him. He doesn't know me well enough to see that I won't back down.
"Well, for whatever reason, then," I say, my voice turning into a rasp, "I'm betting you're old. Jaded, bored with life. And you saw something that you hadn't seen before." My lips are dry. I can feel the skin starting to crack. I slide my tongue over it, but it doesn't help. I swallow saliva that isn't there; I'm desperately thirsty.
"And because you think you're God," I continue, "You decided to take what you wanted. You're just like the man I was trying to arrest."
"You done?" Eric asks, raising an eyebrow, almost too pale to be defined against the skin of his forehead.
I nod.
"My turn," he says, smiling. The expression scares me more than his teeth. He speaks easily enough around them, though. He brushes his hair back and I notice, for the first time that he's wearing a surprisingly casual white t-shirt and jeans. He could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model.
"I'm a captive audience," I croak. "Lay it on me."
"You're what, all of 28?" He asks, not letting me answer. "And you're all about control. Even your looks—that's how you get to other people, especially this man you were trying to catch. And you hate it, because it goes against the fact that you're smart, and educated, and proud of it. And you like the hunt, just as much as I do—more, even. You hated that man, and the feeling rolled off your body, but so did excitement. You loved luring him in with your wiles, and you relished leading him into a trap. You're just like me, really."
Maybe it's because I feel so weak, so helpless and angry, but I begin to cry. Really cry. All my strength, my reserve, my iron will, gives out and the dam breaks. And I hate him for it; hate him for being witness to my weakness.
The tears keep falling, slow and hot out of the corners of my eyes. Then—there's a light sensation, first on the left, then right side of my face. I open my eyes, my vision blurring slightly, and see that he's licking my tears, ingesting my pain. This only makes them come faster, and then they're rolling down my cheeks and off my chin. I've been picked up, pressed to a chest that's hard but supportive. His hands wind themselves through the hair that's fallen down my back and he rubs them up and down, trying to comfort. He sighs something into my hair, something barely caught by my frantic mind, something definitely not in English, or Spanish, the only other language I speak. It's beautiful though; whatever he said sounds like a song. I know I should be pushing away, shouldn't be finding comfort in the man who is causing me this pain in the first place, but I don't have any strength left to fight. Every reserve is overdrawn, and I can't stop this.
After awhile, I'm not sure how long, I can barely keep my eyes open and my head pounds in time with my heart, sending dull pain all through my neck and shoulders. I can feel Eric's chest, still beneath my cheek, soaked through with my tears.
"I can't glamour you," Eric says, as I bring my hands up to my eyes. The tears have finally subsided.
"Glamour?" I ask, drawing out syllables in my exhaustion. Eric looks down at me like he's holding a child.
"Hypnotize, sort of. I can't influence your mind or your actions. I've never met anyone I couldn't control."
"You…took me away from everything I love because you couldn't control me?" I shake my head, unable to process this information correctly. I was captured, trapped because I was something new and different.
"You don't understand, Elise. I'm old. Over 1,000 years have passed, and I've witnessed it all. But you…you were different. New. I got excited."
"I'm a plaything?" I asked, bile rising in my throat. "I should be glad, though, that I don't have parents to clean out my apartment, Eric." I was falling asleep, but now my body was wide awake again, running on adrenaline.
"It was rash," he says, his tone unreadable. "But I can't change anything, and I don't think I would." I can't look at him, can't focus on anything. I'm breathing too fast, and everything around me begins to spin.
"You're not a person," I say between breaths. "Not a human, not a person, not anything worth saving!" I don't see it, but his eyes glaze over. His hands harden on my back and I'm being put down, laid on the bed again like a rag doll.
"You should get some rest," he says, and stares at me as he stands. I turn my head away, close my eyes. I can't bring myself to say anything; an intense ache filled my throat and I could barely breathe. I fall asleep, on top of the sheets, shortly thereafter.
***
Someone shakes me awake.
"You must have angered Eric last night," the maid—I never asked her name—says, looking at me with an odd sheen in her eyes. "He was stomping around the rest of last night."
"Uhn?" I say, in no shape to be having an intelligent conversation. She looks at me closer, looks at my neck. Her hand goes to her mouth. I touch the skin where Eric bit, my arms sluggish and clumsy, and feel the dried blood there, trailing down my neck.
"What did you say to him?" She asks, touching my arm. I'm not in the mood for any inquiries about last night, so I turn over, see the food she's brought, as well as a stack of books. It makes me feel like crying all over again.
"I just need to eat," I say, looking at her, then the door. She looks at me closely, again, for a moment, then nods before opening the door.
"Wait," I call, and the effort makes my head pound. She turns back to me and I ask her name.
"Mary," she tells me, gives me a sad smile, then leaves. I'm alone again, with thoughts and feelings I don't want to face. I roll back to my other side, ignoring the smell of the food. I close my eyes and sleep wraps its arms around me like a shroud. I give myself to it, trying to erase the events of the night.